You were always folding paper cranes with motivational messages hidden inside, as if it were your job to brighten the days of strangers. I knew something was wrong when you folded “everything will not be o.k.” inside of a small green bird and tossed it into the interstate from the window of my station wagon. I knew you were right, everything was not going to be okay. Not anymore.
The passion of your kisses had faded some weeks earlier. As we laid next to each other at night we could not have been further apart, both mentally and physically. Eventually you’d be laying so close to the wall that I wouldn’t be able to inch any closer – and I’ve always been afraid of sleeping next to the wall so I’d give up and return to my side of the bed, defeated. As you laid against the cold white wall I knew you were dying. The disease that had stormed through your body was the worst case of cynicism I had ever witnessed.
You weren’t dying, you were already dead.
For months your project had consumed your every waking thought – the months before had been consumed by me. But now even the passion for this great work of art had faded, and you simply sat, blank, staring at your canvas day after day.
There was no discussion, just the gradual packing of boxes. Once you were finally gone my apartment and my self were bare shells of what I once had, and I found myself sleeping on your side of the bed. Occasionally I would wake myself up by the feeling of my body falling into the crack between the bed and wall – my deepest fear – but now you weren’t there to catch me.
For the next few months I would occasionally I would see paper cranes around the city. I knew that they were messages from your lost soul. Cries for help. I did my best to ignore them.
For 673 days watched the sun rise together before going to sleep. With you gone I quit my 3rd shift job and started to forget what the sunrise looked like. Each day on my walk home from my new job on Central Ave I’d grab a copy of the local arts magazine, TITLE, to scan through the pages for your name. News of an opening, an exhibit, a death – anything.
For 932 days my search was fruitless, as if you had disappeared from the earth.
On day 933 that changed. There you were, on the cover of TITLE, staring at me as I walked home from work. There you were with the headline “Local Legend Returns!”. Dear God, had the editor only known how true that headline was.
On the 983rd day since your departure I curled my hair and put on my best dress and most uncomfortable shoes. Tonight when you saw me from across the crowded gallery you wouldn’t see the shy boring Joanna Galin that you fell out of love with nearly 3 years ago. You wouldn’t see my flaws and imperfections. All you would see was a stunning woman who had moved on and made the best of her life, and who you wanted nothing more than to have back. This is what I kept telling myself, even though I hadn’t moved on or made anything of my life. Even though you probably wouldn’t want me back.
The line outside of the gallery was long and cold, I had to continue to remind myself not to light a cigarette in fear of you walking past and knowing that I hadn’t quit. Instead I shivered in my heels and pretended to text message my nonexistent friends.
Slowly the line moved as my curls fell and the rain smeared my makeup.
I entered in the building in awe. Paper cranes hung from varying lengths from the ceiling, so many that it was almost hard to tell what they were. To anyone but me it may have actually taken a minute to realize what was above. Small white notes hung every few feet with the simple message “Take one.”
I raised to my tiptoes, nearly falling out of my heels. Carefully I grasped a crane and tugged it from it’s string.
I unfolded the paper.
There it was, your hand writing in thick black marker. I stood in bliss for a second or two, possibly three, admiring your sloppy lettering. And then I read the message scribbled inside.
you will be loved, just not by me.
Silently I left.
Last night I went to sleep with the lights on. Not just one light, but every light from my kitchen into my bedroom. It was one of the tiny pills I had taken moments before stumbling up the staircase, I can never remember their names but I believe it was the pink one.
Like so many things in my life, it was hard to swallow.
I woke up to the smell of cigarettes and Sam. Apparently I left the door unlocked, too. The lights were still on and I couldn’t breathe.
I drank water constantly, trying to force my body to remove the oxygen molecules from the liquid and fill my lungs, I’m not sure that’s how it works but it’s what I was hoping for.
Sam stared at me from across my kitchen table, tapping her ashes into my cereal bowl from the day before and often offering me puffs.
“Come on, we’re going to tea.”
The tea was fine but the pastries and conversation were overwhelmingly dry. I constantly find myself not enjoying the company I surround myself with.The emptiness that had followed me for days now had not lifted and I found myself wanting – but what was both unsure and unimportant. Mostly, it was out. I wanted out more than ever before, probably because at this point in my life out was not an option. Not even remotely.
I went to dinner with Steven, he ordered his steak cooked medium well. I couldn’t have been more disgusted. I reminded myself to be ladylike as I cut my own rare meat into small pieces, and reminded myself to look human as I sopped the blood that covered my plate up into these small pieces. I didn’t put too much care into this, and Steven didn’t seem to notice.
Steven’s middle name is Jonathan, which I think is pretty much pointless. Middle names infuriate me, I’m sure I am the only bitch in the restaurant whose middle name isn’t Nicole or Michelle. My middle name is Kathryn, with a K. My grandmother was Mary Kathryn, and she was a powerful bitch.
I excuse myself to the parking lot for a cigarette. Steven doesn’t smoke, and I only smoke as an excuse to get away from him. Slowly a beat up car barely pulls up next to me and the window lowers.
What sits inside is one of the most gross displays of a man I’ve ever seen, and he’s giving me the most hideous glance ever.
“Girl, you retarded sexy,” he screams over the loud rap music that blares from his speakers, the bass making my chest rattle.
I deeply inhale my cigarette and then blow the smoke out in a slow, steady, even stream.
“You’re quite retarded yourself.”
“You fuck?”
This question is not a question, and for some reason it catches me off guard. I fuck. I fuck all night long, I’ve made men cry I fuck so well.
“Yes. I fuck.”
He unlocks the car door, and I’m not sure why, but I get in.
This is probably one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done, and I can see myself ending up dead in a dumpster behind K-Mart in record time. I can see the re-enactment on one of those TV shoes I hate, but they’ll probably make it seem like I was forced into the car when they reenact it. I wonder how many of those stupid bitches did exactly as I did.
“Do you have any water?”
The stranger looks at me, shakes his head, and licks his lips. I fumble through my purse and find a pink pill and throw it down my throat dry.
“Do you have a condom?”
“Don’t worry about it, I’m just trying to have a baby.”
The stranger looks surprised – “I’m not ready to be a father,” he says.
“I don’t care, I don’t even know your name. Don’t worry, I won’t be looking for child support.”
“What will you name it?”
“Kathryn.”
“My mom’s name is Catherine, she’s a bitch.”
I look deeply into his eyes and nod.
I’ve been thinking about high school a lot lately. I hated it while I was there, but now Im starting to miss it. Only two things kept me alive in high school: you and The Legendary Pink Dots.
You were perfect for me then. You knew exactly what I needed to keep from losing my mind after those seven hours of torture each day.
You had no idea that you were one of the only two things in the world that I was living for, but you never disappointed me either.
The only thing I looked forward to more than kissing you at the top of the stairs on the way to 3rd period was walking with you after school.
It was the same each day, we’d meet by the tree and start walking towards the lake – taking turns listening to songs by The Legendary Pink Dots on the walkman while talking about everything and absolutely nothing at the same time.
Once we’d get to the lake the photo shoot would begin. It was never planned, but you always said you couldn’t resist taking pictures of my perfect smile. You’re the only person to ever make me smile like that.
I haven’t heard from you in years, but a while back when I saw your photos in a magazine your model, unlike me, had much more than a great smile.
I haven’t smiled like that since we parted ways.
The photos would continue until we could no longer resist, and then usually we’d lay in the grass near the water. We wouldn’t always have sex, though it was amazing when we did. But laying there in the sun with your arms around me was just as fulfilling. I would bury my nose deep into your curly hair and inhale the scent of your coconut shampoo until I could no longer remember what anything else in the world smelt like. And then I’d make fun of you for using coconut scented shampoo.
These are the things I think as I try and get to sleep tonight while my husband sleeps next to me and my children lay in the room across the hall. My husband has long grown unattractive and leaves a sour taste in my mouth. My maternal instinct is, and always has been, non existent.
I start to wonder where we went wrong, and why it’s not you laying next to me right now. Why our children aren’t across the hall.
I step out of the bed and into the closet. I rifle through a box simply labeled “Old” for several moments until I find it: my walkman, with the The Legendary Pink Dots mix tape you made me in 11th grade in the tape deck.
I return to the bed and attempt to play the tape. The batteries in the walkman are, of course, dead. I remove the batteries from the remote and replace what remains of the long corroded bullets inside of what was once my favorite toy.
I press play. Lisa’s Funeral begins to echo inside my ear canals.
I wonder where you are, and I ask myself why in the hell I ever chose to smell anything but your coconut shampoo.
I’m mentally begging you to walk over here and kiss me. I would settle for you just acknowledging I’m alive, even that would make my heart skip several beats.
I always throw my cigarettes to the ground and then pick them up for one last puff before tossing them again. I’ve decided that this is because I am simply not able to allow myself to let things go. I’m not allowing you to go, I’m telepathically forcing you to stay exactly where you are.
You start to turn your head but something, perhaps my eyes piercing your skin like needles, stops you from doing so. You remain facing forward, and I keep using my mental powers to not allow you to leave.
I toss my cigarette to the ground. I don’t stomp it out, but I also don’t pick it back up. Instead I just light another.
Your girlfriend looks over me and then stands on her tiptoes to speak something into your ear. She’s probably saying, “Don’t look now, but that crazy girl is staring at you.” I don’t break my stare, and I don’t the hold I have over you. Don’t look now, but this crazy girl is controlling your every thought, movement, and response. Whether you want to admit it or not. Don’t look now, but this girl is in love with you. Don’t look now, but she’s going to make you love her back.
It’s after midnight but I’ve met you at the park, our park, for another one of our secret rendezvouses.
This makes the fourth time we’ve done this in the two weeks since we’ve met. You’ve made it clear that you’ll fuck me all night long but you’ll never be able to kiss me. You cannot kiss me, because that would be cheating.
You can kiss my neck, but that’s not cheating.
You can remove my shirt, but that’s not cheating.
You can whisper in my ear that I’m the most beautiful thing you’ve ever met, but that most certainly is not cheating.
You just can’t kiss me.
I push my hair over my shoulder and lower myself to sip from the fountain. I press the button and slowly the water bubbles up and then eventually becomes a constant stream. I close my eyes. I always close my eyes when I drink, I consider it rude to do otherwise.
The ice cold water hits my lips and I open them slightly. I drink until my thirst should be quenched, and it’s not, so I keep drinking.
Suddenly I feel not the ice cold water against my lips but the warmth of his own. My thirst is quenched, and I open my mouth slightly once again.
And nothing will ever be the same again.
“Hello?”
“Come home. Please, come home, right now.”
“You know I’m busy right now…”
“There’s been an emergency. My mom died.”
You hesitate.
“I’ll be right there.”
I sit the phone down and return to pacing outside of your bedroom door. This used to be our bedroom. Our situation is interesting. We were together for six years and then you dumped me. Now we just live in the same house, but you spend most of your time at your girlfriend’s.
I hear the front door unlock and I run down the stairs. I’m always a very cautious person and almost never run down the stairs but tonight rationality escapes me. Before you can even shut the door behind yourself my arms are around you and I’m burying my face in your chest trying my best not to let tears escape from my eyes.
I know this is usually not okay. But right now, I feel like you’re willing to make an exception. I know this is usually not okay, but right now my mother is fucking dead. Right now, you’ve moved on, but right now I feel like you can make room for me. Because you did love me. Because right now, right now I need you.
You don’t shy away from me, you don’t remind me that this isn’t okay anymore. You just hold me tight. We stand like this for several moments, and then I release my hold and grab your hand. Avoiding eye contact I silently pull you up the stairs.
We stand outside of the doorway to the bedroom that was once ours and is now your own. “I need you to open this door, and I need you to lay on the bed. I need you to let me lie next to you okay?”
You open the door and take me by the hand.
When we were children we saw the same things, like ghosts in the clouds.
When we were teenagers we held each other’s hands during intense moments, like when we found your mom hanging from the ceiling of her bedroom.
When we were 20 we moved to the other side of the country and left what remained our parents notes saying we loved them, but we knew they were lies.
We loved no one but each other.
Or so I thought.
Each night we’d lay down in our bed and I’d pull you close to me and smell your hair. This was bliss.
Each night you’d kiss me on my forehead, and I’d think to myself – thank god. I’d think to myself – you’ve saved my life. I’d think to myself – I can never be without this.
And then the forehead kisses stopped.
And then you started sleeping on the couch.
Tonight we’re sitting at the kitchen table and you’re making a list of qualities you want in a lover, and I’m helping you write the personal ad – because it’s the only thing I can do now to make you happy.
“She has to wear dresses, but not the kind you wear. Something more feminine, but not as girly. You know what I mean?”
I nodded my head and held back tears.
“She has to wear her hair down all of the time, kind of like your hair cut but you never wear it down.”
I nod and add this to the list, and I think to myself that as soon as you look away I should undo my ponytail.
“She has to be at least two inches shorter than me, and she has to be passionate about something. But something interesting. And something that she won’t talk about all of the time.”
I nod, wipe a tear from my face, and plan to no longer discuss my writing with you.
“Well, I’m going to go to sleep now. Is it okay if I take the bed tonight?”
I nod. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“Cool, I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”
You leave for the bedroom and shut and lock the door. On the piece of paper I quickly write lipstick lesbian seeks same and walk to the living room to go to sleep.
Last night I kissed you for the last time.
Right now, you’re with someone else. Someone you have the capability of loving.
Last night I touched you for the last time.
Right now you’re probably being touched by someone you’re going to let yourself love.
That thought makes me want to be sick.
You two are probably kissing, and I want to be happy for you but it’s just too hard to do that.
There’s no use for me anymore.
Last night was the last night I’d ever see you before you spent the night with this other person, and last night was the last time I’d ever be able to look at you without crying.
Right now, I’m lighting the last cigarette I’ll ever smoke.
Today marks the first day of the rest of your life.
Right now, I’m taking the last drag from my last cigarette and the first of the last breathes I will ever take.
Today marks the last day of the rest of my life.
I’m taking my last breath. I’m crying my last tear.
God knows how you got here, but all you know is that you don’t want to leave. You don’t dare let anyone know this, you are rude to the nurses and when your family comes you just cry and scream about how much you miss home and hate this place, but it’s all lies.
At some point, this became home.
At some point you realized you don’t want to go back to your mother’s house, with the little bedroom filled with stuffed animals and cheerleader uniforms – like a shrine to some perfect child who became the perfect homecoming queen.
You’ve grown tired of being that girl, and the homecoming queen crown hurts your head. You don’t even want to see that room again.
When you’re ready to be released there will be no reason that you can’t get your own apartment. Something quaint that your parents will have picked for you before they even let you see it and pretend to give you a choice. Just far enough away to not be their home, but just quick enough for them to dash over if they find another suicide note.
Yeah, you could live there, but you don’t want to.
You’re happy here. You don’t want to leave.
Best of all, you’ve figured this place out – and you never have to leave. You’ll hear the nurses whispers when they hear from the head doctor that you’re sane enough to leave, and you’ll know you’re not acting strange enough. So you’ll do something really crazy – like demand that they make your bath ice cold, and then refuse to get out of it for six hours.
And the nurses won’t like it, because they have to sit there and watch you bathe.
That’ll get you another 3 months, easily.
And this works well for your vendetta against your parents, too, because they’ve already spent your college fund on this place. They may have even started on a second mortgage by now.
The thought of them struggling to pay the bills warms your cold heart and sends a smile across your face. You may even laugh about it for a day or four.
And that’ll get you another 5 months, no problem.
You’ll keep extending it, and eventually one of the girls who is actually crazy will confront you and say you have to go home at some point.
And you’ll try and stab her with the eyeliner pencil you were given after promising for months you wouldn’t stab anyone with it.
And that will get you a year, at least.
The first day after you loose the baby no one will judge you for not wanting to get out of bed.
After a few days they’ll start to worry, but no one will say anything. Not yet, at least.
Eventually, probably after a few weeks, your friends will try and stage some sort of intervention. If you’re like me you’ll call them crazy and force them out of your life forever.
If you’re like me, your husband will still support you. For that first day, and the few days after. Even the weeks after. But eventually, usually around the third year of not leaving the bed, even your husband will give up.
He’ll tell you that he still loves you, but things have gotten out of hand. He’ll hire some Mexican woman that speaks no English to come by every few days and move the boxes of food he’s bought for you closer, and help you operate the can opener if you don’t have the strength.
But you hate this woman, because she is so full of judgement. So eventually you find a way to communicate to her that she need not come back. She’ll listen to you, kind of.
And then you’re on your on. Confided to a bed with no contact to the outside world. Laying in your own waste. Eating cans of glazed carrots with your fingers every few days when hunger strikes you.
If those friends that tried to help saw you now they’d probably want to vomit.
But for you, it’s just life.
You wouldn’t change it for the world, because even if you did your baby would still be dead.
Everyone else would judge you if they knew, but I would never do that. They just don’t understand. I understand, more than you could ever imagine.
The Mexican woman used to come back every month or so with new boxes of food. She didn’t speak, she just gave disgusted looks and threw the boxes onto the floor, most times slightly out of reach.
She’s a bitch.
But don’t worry, by the sixth year she stops coming at all.
After a few months there’s only one more can of glazed carrots. And the can opener broke a few cans ago.
So you just slam the can against the wall.
And you slam it.
And you slam it.
And you’re really hungry.
So you slam it.
And eventually your strength is gone and you have to take a break for a few hours.
Or maybe it’s a few days, it’s so hard to tell anymore.
While you’re taking this break you slip in and out of consciousness – but the entire time you can hear someone walking up the stairs of your home.
And sure, it’s a big house, really it’s more of an estate – but there are only so many stairs. Whoever is here must not be very good at walking up stairs.
Every few minutes you hear that person scream, but you don’t understand why. You comprehend what they are screaming, but do not understand why anyone would be walking up a staircase screaming that. In my case they’re screaming “Olivia”. I wonder if that was the name of the baby they lost.
You try and remain quiet – because it’s probably very late at night and this person is probably going to kill you.
Suddenly you wonder if it’s a holiday, and you realize how many holidays have passed since the last time you knew a holiday had happened. It’s just a feeling thought, and you don’t really care, but you are curious.
On the wall where you were slamming the can there is a mark. It’s a long diagonal line, and then underneath that there is another long diagonal line going in the opposite direction. It looks kind of like a less than symbol that you used in math class.
Or, if you look long enough, it looks like a baby.
And that’s what it is, a sign from beyond. A sign from your baby that you are about to die.
You smell smoke, and you try and remember the last time you had warm food. Or a warm bath. It’s been long enough that you don’t remember what these things feel like.
You slam the can, and now the baby has legs and it really looks like he’s in the fetal position. And this can’t be a coincidence.
You keep slamming this can against the dead baby on the wall until it breaks open, and you have a glazed carrot.
After the one, you’re not really that hungry anymore.
The smoke is now filling the room up and the only thing you’ll feel is regret, that once again you’re going to be unable to save your baby. If somehow you could peel the paint off the wall and walk to the window and throw the smudge of the baby out you could save it – but your legs stopped working after a while and you’ve long forgotten how you used them anyways.
Not to mention babies rarely survive such a fall.
So you wait, and you mumble to the baby that you’re sorry.
And you die.
Wicked Wisdom 